


When All Light Fades

by waelsele



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waelsele/pseuds/waelsele
Summary: Healing is no easy matter, not for Èowyn of Rohan, of late come so close to the brink that all her rallying strength seems to fade. But she finds aid and understanding in the strangest of places. And perhaps, at lengths, she may even find an enduring reason to cling to life and banish, as best she knows how, the ghosts of the past.AU! The White Lady of Rohan learns her true heart.
Relationships: Èowyn/ Legolas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	When All Light Fades

Èowyn felt herself, as though from some great distance, lifted upon careful arms. She thought she heard voices, but could not be certain, for all pained her too greatly and the shadows called her. Sinking into blessed numbness she did not see her brother’s horse bearing his rider thither. She saw nothing of Èomer’s grief at the sight of her broken body, nor did she hear him weep. Of holds not known, one need not speak. She had lain her head to rest and would not wake, however desperate the calls of those around her. And when he brother rode away in mad fury to face the enemy and hew the foul Orcs, she could not temper his charge.

The men lifted her upon a stretcher, as they had done for their king. They would see her to safe place for tending and prepare her for the last journey. If asked, she would have claimed readiness; Èowyn had not lived a full life, and there were yet many a thing she wished she could do. But if the gods saw fit to curb her so soon, she would not fight against that. Life had wearied her, cutting to the bone with bereavement after bereavement. Her parents, her cousin, her uncle yet for a time, she had lost her brother to exile and lost her hope to the Wormtongue’s dark whispers. What was one more loss? Her life held little meaning and she would fain be parted for rest.

But even the embrace of death spared her not. In the deep dark to which her soul had sunk, it was not respite awaiting her. A shiver of fright shook her as unexpected tension crept upon her from some accursed corner. She heard the hissing voice of Gríma, felt his touch upon her, light as ever, careful as though she were precious, and repulsive for the burgeoning desire in his gaze. Èowyn struggled to cry out, but no sound came. And who could help her in sooth? He spoke gently to her, her uncle’s treacherous servant, promising ease and comfort. Shrinking from him, she found herself standing all at once. Looking down upon she beheld her garb of old, worn in the halls of her king. She saw as well the empty bed of Théodred with its stained furs and the scent of death clinging so strongly. She knew what followed, what would slink out from the shadows as she stood before the memory of her loss and was prepared when shuffling steps became audible. Without a second thought, she picked up her skirts and dashed, in the semi-darkness, to the wall and its lit sconce. She could keep the blackness at bay; all she needed was light, small as though it may be.

The second set of doors would provide her with escape; that matter she did not ponder, holding onto her torch, but rather she flung open the doors, her foot poised to step onto the threshold when finally she took notice of it. Meduseld the Golden has fallen into shadow. It was not the mere caress of night, but deeper, blacker and too foul for words. Her heart shriveled to splinter and she put her foot down, suddenly at a loss. A sea of blackness awaited her without and ponderous steps warned of the danger to come. She was trapped between them. In the lonesome hall, Gríma would not spare her; in the nothingness yonder she feared what she might find. The sound of footfalls grew in strength.

She had a light. Surely it would cut through the darkness like a sword through vicious enemies, tearing it asunder with its power. Stirring, she glanced back over her shoulder. The doors behind her creaked open, a sliver just. She abandoned her perusal and took a deep breath before fleeing the chamber altogether. What gripped her then she could not well describe even if all the cunning of the wordsmith’s craft should be placed at her feet. She could say of it that it was rank with hatred and bloated with despair. It grabbed at her like hands. She brandished her light as she might a blade and cut through the veil it did. But the art of such darkness could not fall to so paltry an assault. Gathering its strength the foe charged her. As though through a mist, she saw Gríma stand back. Framed by the measly glow of faded fires, the wizardling cast his eyes to her. Even he dared not step forth into the mire of shadow. Yet he held his hand out, as though begging her to claim it.

And such a choice she had. Èowyn gave a sorrowful cry as the vile shade untiring grasped at the her soul, seeping in like poison, darkening even those precious few golden memories she kept close to her heart. With no will of her own, she took a step towards the man who watched with hopeful, lusting eyes. Her flesh was no longer under her control. She wished neither to go to him, nor to leap into the nothingness ahead, but to battle and perish once and for all where there were no nemesis to behold and no more battles to for tired arms.

In the world of light, a pallid sun spilled its rays upon bloodied grounds. The Rohirrim carried their brave king and their lady fair still. Some men of Dol Amroth had seen them and offered aid with their burden. Taking up wounded. Among them was their prince, come lately to battle. His fierce countenance was balanced by curiosity. He gazed them to the White Lady of Rohan, thinking her the oddest of sights. Drawing his horse nearer, he passed a hand upon her cool forehead. The dead had no clammy skin to claim and no breath, even as shallow as hers. The Riders of the Mark claimed her lost. “Send her to the Houses of Healing,” he said in a commanding voice. “She yet draws breath and if the gods are kind will live through her ordeal.” And then he rode to battle.

Èowyn was carried into the Houses of Healing, for none dared naysay the Prince of Dol Amroth, such was his strength. Laid upon a bed of fragrant cloth and soft fur, she slept dead to the world. But those who looked with a keen eye could not fail to make out the laborious rise and fall of her chest, nor the fine beads of sweat upon her forehead. She was tended to firstly by a one of the many women wise in the arts of healing, her helpings hands drawing softly upon the moist skin, washing away dirt and dark soot. She then worked then to tug away at armor-plate and chainmail, greatly surprised to find a woman beneath. A moment did she linger upon her discovery, long enough to ponder with some wonder at the hidden strength of a maid not above her own age. Tenderly then, she brought her cloth to offer comfort and prepare her for healing hands. After she was satisfied with her work, she clothed the lady in soft linens to guard her modesty well.

It was thus that she was found upon Èomer’s return. He barged into the chamber absent helm and war-arm, stained yet with the gloom of battle. “Èowyn!” he cried, falling to his knees at her bedside. His hands took hers between them, bowing his head over it as though in prayer. “Wake, sister. ‘Tis time to wake.” But she remained deep in slumber.

Behind him, quick-paced, entered Aragorn, bearing in his hand a small bowl. He set it in nearness to Èowyn’s head. “Do not despair, Èomer; let the Athelas do its work and your sister rest. She will come to when the time is ripe.” Head yet lowered, Èomer breathed deep, locked in struggle with some deep emotion. “Come, let us look at your wounds and care for them.” He was persuaded to heed Aragorn’s words after a time.

To that bore Legolas witness as he stood near the wall, watching Gandalf’s form bent over the brave shieldmaiden. The wizard said a few words over her, lifting one hand to push back at silver-gold tresses. He waited until both king and wizard had left before he approached. The sweet aroma of crushed Athelas filled the bower. She had been brave in battle and yet he felt her waning.

It was both pity and admiration which moved his hand. He twined his fingers with her own, pressing her hand ever so gently. “It is not yet your time.” Too many had already fallen. In his own tongue, he spoke to her gentle words, casting out the lure of light, calling her back. It was no easy thing he asked of her; he’d sensed her grief long before they’d spoken to one another. Only at Helm’s Deep had she revealed something of herself to him and even that under the cover of hopelessness. It was perhaps foolish to draw to her as he did; but perhaps not. His only wish was for the lady to rest and wake and from there whatever came of it was the will of the Valar.

He left her then to her sleep thereafter, for the war was not over even if this one battle had been won.

In the formless void, Èowyn sensed the vague warmth of distant light and lifted her head from her knees, the tears of despair and defeat wetting her cheeks. It seemed to her than that many hands turned with compassion to her, brushing at her hair and her forehead, holding her hand. In the trembling waves of darkness a flicker of light was spurred to life and its flame shone bright as the sun, casting the hall into light, vanquishing all shadow and banishing the ghastly Wormtongue.

She woke with a gasp, to waning, reddish glow of the setting sun shone its restless light upon the white stone and light wood within her sight. Her sight blurred and tears stung her eyes. Something very much like a whimper spilled past her clenched lips as unbearable pain washed over her. The ache settled deep into her chest, pressing upon her heart. With a mighty struggle she opened wide her mouth and swallowed in air. The knot loosened in her throat then, as though torn, and she could breath all of a sudden. But more than that she could not do; Èowyn understood all too soon that she was weak as a new-born thing when mere shifting caused her to tremble violently.

Resting back against the linens and furs, she closed her eyes. Darkness did not overtake her; even behind her fallen lids, the fiery glow persisted, bathing her and all it touched. She knew not how long her sleep had been. All she could recall was the horrible mist of the Witch-king, its potency hurting like the cut of a blade and even more perhaps. She ten remembered her fallen uncle. The light dimmed but did not disappear altogether.

Her brother, she had no knowledge of his fate! The thought caused her to open her eyes wide just as the door creaked, signaling the coming of another. She tensed involuntarily and turned with great effort her head. A veiled figure stood in the doorway. “You have woken,” the stranger spoke, her soft voice uncommonly deep for a woman. “This will gladden many hearts. Lady of the Shield-arm.” Coming closer, the blur fallen over her gaze receded and she could see clearly the cleanness of her garb and the whiteness of her hands. A heal then, her mind whispered. She thought to ask after her brother, lips moving. No words came. “Water, my lady?”

Perhaps that would help. Èowyn blinked her acceptance, hoping it would be understood. Soon enough a cool rim rested against her lips and sweet liquid dripped upon her tongue. She swallowed as best she could, parched of a sudden. How long had it been since she had tasted anything like it? She head the woman speak again and listened. “It is good you have come to your senses; the army marches soon and I expect much trouble will be lifted from their shoulders to see you so. Your kin in particular; he has come to see you as often as he may between many duties.”

Èomer was alive. Her breath shuddered with relief. She took some more water until the woman declared herself pleased and the cup was removed. “And now, my lady, I take it you will be wanting your brother. The men yet discuss their plans, but soon that shall be over and then I will bring him to you. Have you the strength to last until then?” This time she managed a weak nod and was rewarded with a kindly smile as her brow was washed by a damp cloth. 

She did not know how long it took in sooth for the hour to come when her brother could see her. Time seemed to flow in odd patterns for once on her own she’d closed her eyes and upon opening them saw her brother’s concerned face; he peered down at her with the wetness upon his lashes. His broad palm cradled her cheek. “Èowyn, sister.” His voice a mere whisper, Èomer looked on breathless. But the heat of his hand did not diminish and when he leaned in, touching his forehead to hers, she knew all that he might wish to say. If she had the power she would embrace him then, but all she managed was a small movement of her arms. Vigilant as her brother was, he took notice of it. “No, you mustn’t move. Not yet.”

With unexpected strength, she managed then to say, “I hear you ride away.” No more than that did she manage and no more was needed. Èomer spoke briefly of the decisions lately reached; he spoke of the strength of the men. “Our numbers may not be great. But these are brave men and good fighters. I may yet find it in me to hope. There is much preparation to be made and even now out numbers are being bolstered. I will come to you then each day as I can.” 

He settled upon the edge of the bed. His hand was near hers, touching just barely. Turning as she could, Èowyn pressed them more firmly together and sketched the barest of smiles when he responded by gripping hand her fully. “You cannot know my joy now, sister.” Secretly she thought she could; but told him nothing. A small part of her, though, wished she might put it to him that surely he could not understand her heart whenever she was left behind to await his return in uncertainty. But that would be cruel. She hadn’t any heart for such sport. “I thought you were lost to me, slain in turn by the Witch-king you yourself slew. Such a might foe you have bested.”

“I did not win alone.” If she had been brought so low then what of brave Merry? Worry darkened her face.

“Worry not for the Halfling; he is well. Better than you are in truth.” He told her then what had been done for the Hobbit and she breathed easy. Easing his hold upon her hand, Èomer raised it briefly to place it upon her middle. “And now, I have worn out my welcome for certain. If I linger, I shall be chased out before long.” Either he was a soothsayer of he knew the running of the Houses of Healing a great deal better than Èowyn thought possible, for no sooner had he said the words that the door opened to admit in the same woman from before.

A few words were exchanged between the newcomer and her brother and she found herself thereafter faced with a bowl from which steam rose. The fragrant mist had to be sustenance. She had not realized just how famished she was. But before that, it would be wise of her to learn the name of her minder. And so she asked.

“Oh, lady, they call me Merthwyn.” Èowyn could not hide her surprise. A canny expression came over the other’s face. “You have guessed right to think I have some ties to the Riddermark. My grandmother hailed from those parts and wedded rather from home, as you can see.” She could then better see some of their common blood have its say, for though Merthwyn the colouring was dark, in shape she held in closeness to Èowyn herself. These words the woman spoke feeding Èowyn from the bowl. It was a thin sort of cruel they had prepared; the taste was rather bland, but the brew was warm. It fell into the pit of her stomach with comfortable result and filled her well, though she managed to down but a third of the whole. “The good thing is that you are eating,” her companion said at long last. “That is a sure sign of mending.” Their time together was soon at an end.

When the shadows grew long once more and the sun was pulled from the skies, leaving the silver moon and countless smaller lights, Èowyn managed to turn on her side, too restless to sleep once more, though she could feel the weight of exhaustion. She wished she might climb to her feet, if only to pace the length of the room and stretch them a little. But as her meal proved beyond the smallest doubt, she was powerless. Tossing so, she somehow saw herself upon the path to slumber once more, though not willingly. Without the golden glow of the sun the darkness behind her lids had become threatening once more.

She dreamed of Théodred as last she’d seen him, wasting away before her eyes. In the vision she held his cold hand, but her own were numb with the chill of grief. His grievous wound could be healed by no craft known in their hall. Èowyn did not weep, though her heart was raw with pain. Tears eluded her, pressure mounted and she remained caged in the unabating sorrow. Such a foe she could not raise her sword against and had thus no means of escape. Troubled, she remained seated, wondering how long it would take for the other to creature appear.

Yet it was the ailing Théodred who tormented her then, for he opened his eyes. But they were such unnatural eyes, rimmed with rings of red and glowing strangely, their watery-grey and misty. His battle-torn and mangled flesh moved with sickening motions, as though he were some puppet in strings. He leapt at her, wrenching a shriek as he made her stumble backwards in a bid to avoid his touch. Something within her sensed the evil which had overtaken him and shrank from it.

Her eyes flew open and she gave a sharp cry but found no monster bearing down upon her. Instead, she was faced with familiar eyes. Blinking stupidly, Èowyn fought the frown which had overtaken her. “Master Elf?” He glowed in that way of his people, fairer to the eye than any sight had a right to be. Behind him she could make out the stars and the frown deepened. Something was not quite right. And then it hit her; “How come I find you here?”

He offered a faint smile. “I heard you cry out. It is an unfortunate effect of your ailment.” Legolas continued to look down at her. “It is best not to lose yourself into such night terrors. If I may, I will sit with you a while” She consented, untroubled but for the briefest of moments to think herself a burden to him. He helped her higher against the mounds of pillows and it seemed to her she could breathe better. 

His touch was light upon her arm and soothing as the best of balms. “You are kind, but I do not know that I should keep you.” He replied to her in his own tongue, and she understood him not, but guessed it to be some manner of denial by the shake of his head.

“I am here of my own will, lady, and shall stay until your need is gone.” Whatever foulness haunted her dreams was pushed back at such surety. “As you heal, you will find yourself less burdened.” She hoped it were so.

“I wonder,” she began but stopped herself short. She could impose no further upon him, for he had been kind enough to last her a lifetime and more, certainly, than she had any right to expect. Her shoulders relaxed against the pillows.

“Say on,” her elven companion urged. There was something in the quality of his voice which touched her and propelled her into speech. It seemed to refuse an Elf was no easy task and thus she struggled no longer. 

“I wish I could feel the breeze against me, even if just by sitting outside a few moments.” It would not cure her weakness, she didn’t think; but it might ease the thrall of darkness to see and feel a world so much truer than her own.

“That is no hardship, lady; I will carry you nearer yonder lancet.” He helped draw one of the pelts around her shoulders, to ward off the chill of the night and bore her weight from the bed to the place of her choosing, settling her carefully so she might see the world below and skies above and feel the stroke of a passing gale; it tugged at her hair, in similar fashion to what she’d endured as a child at the hands of her brother and cousin.

Upon that thought, tears came unbidden. She had not wept for Théodred when they placed him in his mound, nor for her uncle when he fell. She had not wept even for her own suffering. Perhaps it was time to do so. She cried then for all the evils that had touched her life and was glad for the shoulder the Elf offered her.

Holding her with care, Legolas did little more than stroke her golden head of hair as one might do for a child. He’d wondered at her slow recovery, never quite bringing it up with his friend. Aragorn had done what he could for her and he worried as well. Gandalf had counselled forbearance, saying she had been used so ill by fright and battle and heartache. He thought of his own kin, learned in the arts of healing, wondering if they might strengthen her by their craft. Legolas wished to see her smile as she had when her hopes clung to Aragorn, brilliant and true to her radiant soul.

Idly he hummed a tune of his boyhood to ease her. There was little he could do beyond that, but it seemed a gesture well-received, as Èowyn’s sobs quietened into sniffles then fell, at long last, into silence. Once he was satisfied that she had doused at least some of the fires of pain, he set himself from her and gazed upon her face. Pale and drawn she was, as brittle as spun glass. She gave a shallow nod to an unspoken question and he carried her back to the bed, lying her down and covering her back up.

“Sleep,” he said, “and I shall keep the nightmares at bay.” She did not know whether he had such a power; if any of his kind had. She trusted, however, in his presence, a beacon lit of her in the deep night, calling her from the shores of darkness.

When she spoke her gratitude, he did not brush her aside as though it were a small thing. Sliding into slip, she thought only that it would be a great thing to rise to her feet soon, so that she might see the men to their battle as she ought to, finding she no longer envied their burden. 

**Author's Note:**

> Vae mihi! I couldn't resist. I absolutely want one of those old-style romances for Èowyn and Legolas. Please don't bite my head off....


End file.
